E'en to this day, their many crimes
The peasants sing in drowsy rhymes—
On mountain, or on plain;
And as they sing, the plaintive song
Tells many a deed of guilt and wrong—
Each has a doleful strain!
* * * * *
One glorious morn, it so befell,
I heard the tale which I shall tell,
At that Posada dark and grey
Which stands upon the mountain way,
Between Caracas and the sea;
So grim—so dark—it seem'd to me
Fit place for deed of guilt or sin—
Tho' peaceful peasants dwelt therein.
At midnight we, (my friends and I,)
Beneath a tranquil tropic sky,
Bestrode our mules and onward rode,
Behind the guide who swiftly strode
Up the dark mountain side; while we
With many a jest and repartee—
With jingling swords, and spurs, and bits—
Made trial of our youthful wits.
Ah! we were gay, for we were young
And care had never on us flung—
But, to my tale: the purple sky
Was thick overlaid with burning stars,
And oft the breeze that murmur'd by,
Brought dreamy tones from soft guitars,
Until we sank in silence deep.
It was a night for thought not sleep—
It was a night for song and love—
The burning planets shone above—
The Southern Cross was all ablaze—
'Tis long since it then met my gaze!—
Above us, whisp'ring in the breeze,
Were many strange, gigantic trees,
And in their shadow, deep and dark,
Slept many a pile of mould'ring bones;
For tales of murder fell and stark,
Are told by monumental stones
Flung by the passer's hand, until
The place grows to a little hill.
Up through the shade we rode, nor spoke,
Till suddenly the morning broke.
Beneath we saw in purple shade
The mighty sea; above display'd,
A thousand gorgeous hues which met
In tints that I remember yet;
But which I may not paint, my skill,
Alas! would but depict it ill—
E'en Claude has never given hints
On canvas of such splendid tints!
The mountains, which ere dawn of day
I'd liken'd unto friars grey—
Gigantic friars clad in grey—
Stood now like kings, wrapp'd in the fold
[Footnote 2: Panama, Carthagena, Maracaibo, and Chagres, were at various times held by the buccaneers.]
A Story of the Caracas Valley.
Of gorgeous clouds around them roll'd—
Their lofty heads all crown'd with gold;
And many a painted bird went by
Strange to my unaccustom'd eye—
Their plumage mimicking the sky.
O'er many a league, and many a mile—
Crag—pinnacle—and lone defile—
All Nature woke!—woke with a smile—
As tho' the morning's golden gleam
Had broken some enchanting dream,
But left its soft impression still,
On lofty peak and dancing rill.
With many a halt and many a call,
At last we saw the rugged wall,
And gaz'd upon the ruin'd gate
Which even then look'd desolate,
For that Posada so forlorn
Seem'd sad e'en on so gay a morn!
The heavy gate at length unbarr'd,
We rode within the busy yard,
Well scatter'd o'er with many a pack;
For on that wild, romantic track,
The long and heavy-laden trains
Toil seaward from the valley's plains.
And often on its silence swells
The distant tinkle of the bells,
While muleteers' shrill, angry cries
From the dim road before you rise;
And such were group'd in circles round
Playing at monté on the ground;
Each swarthy face that met my eye
To thought of honesty gave lie.
In each fierce orb there was a spark
That few would care to see by dark—
And many a sash I saw gleam thro'
The keen cuchillo into view.
Within; the place was rude enough—
The walls of clay—in color buff—
A pictur'd saint—a cross or so—
A hammock swinging to and fro—
A gittern by the window laid
Whereon the morning breezes play'd,
And its low tones and broken parts
Seem'd like some thoughtless minstrel's arts—
A rugged table in the floor—
Ran thro' this homely comedor.
Here, weary as you well may think,
An hour or so we made abode,
To give our mules both food and drink,
Before we took again the road;
And honestly, our own repast
Was that of monks from lenten fast.
The meal once o'er; our stores replaced;
We gather'd where the window fac'd
Upon the vale, and gaz'd below
Where mists from a mad torrent's flow
Were dimly waving to and fro.
Meanwhile, the old guitar replied
To the swift fingers of our guide:
His voice was deep, and rich, and strong,
And he himself a child of song.
At first the music's liquid flow
Was soft and plaintive—rich and low;
The murmur of a fountain's stream
Where sleeping water-lilies dream;
Or, like the breathing of love-vows
Beneath the shade of orange-boughs;
And then more stirring grew his song—
A strain which swept the blood along!
And as he sang, his eyes so sad—
Which lately wore the look of pain,
Danc'd with a gleam both proud and glad,
Awaken'd by his fervid strain—
His face now flush'd and now grew pale—
The song he sang, was this, my tale.
A fort above Laguayra stands,
Which all the town below commands.
The damp moss clings upon its walls—
The rotting drawbridge slowly falls—
Its dreary silentness appalls!
The iron bars are thick with rust
And slowly moulder into dust;
The roofless turrets show the sky,
The moats below are bare and dry—
No captain issues proud behest—
The guard-room echoes to no jest;
As I have said, within those walls
The very silentness appalls!
In other days it was not so—
The Spanish banner, long ago,
Above the turrets tall did flow.
And many a gallant soldier there
With musket or with gleaming spear,
Pac'd on the battlements that then
Were throng'd with tall and proper men.
But this was many a year ago—
A long shot back for mem'ry's bow!
The Governor here made his home
Beneath the great hall's gilded dome.
And here his lady-wife he brought
From Spain, across the sea;
And sumptuous festival was made,
Where now the tangled ivy's shade
Is hanging drearily.
The lady was both fair and young—
Fair as a poet ever sung;
And well they lov'd; so it is told;—
Had plighted troth in days gone by,
Ere he had won his spurs of gold,
Or, gain'd his station high.
And often from the martial keep
They'd sail together on the deep;
Or, wander many a weary mile
In lonely valley, or defile.
Well; once upon this road, a pair,
A lady and a cavalier,
Were riding side by side.
And she was young and "passing fair,"
With crimson lips and ebon hair—
She was the gallant's bride!
And he was cast in manly mould,
His port was high, and free, and bold—
Fitting a cavalier!
But now bent reverently low
His crest's unsullied plume of snow
Play'd 'mid the lady's hair.
This knight with orders on his breast,
The Governor, as you have guess'd—
The lady was his wife, and they,
Alone were on the road that day;—
Their horses moving at a walk,
And they engaged in earnest talk,
Low words and sweet they spoke;
The lady smil'd, and blush'd, and then,
Smiling and blushing, spoke again;
When sleeping echo woke—
Woke with the shouts of a wild band
Who urg'd with spur and heavy hand
Their steeds along the way.